White Devil
by BookOfXcentric
Summary: "If you want something from an audience, you give blood to their fantasies." An event in the life of Youko Kurama and his band of thieves. Non-Yaoi/ No paring. Dark fic! Not for kids. Read warnings inside.


**Rating: **Older Teen - Mature  
**Warnings: **Blood, gore, violence, death, horror and other morbidities…  
**Pairing: **None  
**Disclaimer: **I claim ownership of the computer this was written on, nothing else.  
**Pro****of-reader: **My English teacher.  
**Language: **British English  
**A/N: **Actually this came to me as I was working on another fic, and I thought is was such a splendid idea I just had to write it down.

**Quote of the fic:  
**"_It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood."_  
- William Shakespeare

OXXXO

Youko Kurama laughed. The bubbling sound laced with satisfied malicious intent travelled up his throat, out through his lips. It reverberated through the eardrums of his spectators. Echoing inside their heads like an unrelenting migraine, invoking fear. Making them wish, pray and long for the perpetual silence of death. Something Kurama would not yield to them until he himself was fully convinced that their death would not leave him and his day feeling incomplete and unfulfilled, desiring more.

That maddening chuckle, so rich in its belligerence; it finally came to an end. Nevertheless, the wicked smirk that took its place playing on those thin lips, glinting malevolently behind half-lidded golden eyes… so cold …so cruel; undoubtedly it conveyed, assured that something far more terrifying was about to unfold.

No one falls out of Youko Kurama's favour and lives to tell the tale. They are such insolent creatures; demons. He circled like a predator; the spectators' eerie silent not daring to breathe in fear of antagonizing him further, invoking his cold wrath upon themselves. Skittering vermin like garden filth. They are nothing more than the chess pieces in his master plan. They are all replaceable.

And those delusional enough to think otherwise are disposed of, either clean and simple or they are used as a message brutally conveyed: obedience is vital to survive, or else Youko will play with you, and Youko plays rough; no pity, no mercy, no remorse and certainly no regret.

Youko's expression spoke of a lack sympathy and interest. That apathetic face was perhaps even more frightening than the untamed laugh; it suggested that he was indeed enjoying himself. He took pleasure in being in control of the situation, being watched like an actor on his stage. The expressions were always theatrical, the apathy was genuine.

The topography of the landscape was cut out like a Greek theatre but unlike the stone stages in Greece it was all natural and they all sat there waiting, watching, and anticipating. Fearing what the demon in the midst of the circle had planned for the one kowtowing before him.

But the situation resembled that of the human's Colosseum; a surging, seething, murmuring crowd of naught creatures apprehensively waiting for their leader's verdict to fall and the slaughter which would shortly follow. It crawled, prickled across their skin, jolts of shivering expectancy tickled up their spinal cords and out into the extremities. Suspense shook them like maple leaves.

A feral smile cracked flawless white skin and the expression of indifference fell, melted off. The white tail swept back and forth, occasionally twitching in excitement. The ever-alert ears pointed in different directions aware of what the surrounding crowd murmured; and listening to the tell-telling fauna, betraying every move made inside the forest.

Kurama did not move. It did not matter how he acted for his pawns they all danced like marionettes around him anyway; rats to his flute. They were disposable and easily replaced. Because power was something Kurama held tightly in his clutch… They all craved to serve that power, partake in it, and bask in its glory.

Their group dynamic was built on brutality, violence and absolute obedience, but it wasn't only fear of his apathetic wrath that made them respect Youko. His cold, calculating brain and success rate installed dread in the hearts of those who possessed anything he might want to hold in his hands and claim as his own. Demons and spirits alike shook in terror and fury at the mentioning of his name. They talked about his beauty and allure, but in the end no one dared oppose Youko.

And Kurama's hand of blood struck down like a viper, the ray of sanguine fluid sprayed across the spectators' faces, coloured the leaves of the surrounding trees red. Crimson splattered athwart the marvellous stage. Where the demons throat had been was now a gaping, bleeding open hole… 'A flesh wound' Kurama would call it.

The body spasmed as frenzied, discombobulated nerve signals raged throughout it unable to comprehend its death. The carcass toppled over still twitching in convulsions for a while before it became eerie still; it just lay in the dirt like a discarded bloody rag-doll.

The wind picked up; rustling clothes, playing with tresses of long silver hair, sending tremors through the spectators' bodies and Goosebumps bloomed on their skin. The air they breathed laced with the scent of freshly shed blood, the effect was like snorted cocaine to their senses but no one dared move.

Kurama strode by his line of shivering spectators' with a pleased sashay aspect to his step as he disappeared into the den. Kuronue rose from his seat and followed the fox in. Once hidden from sight he grabbed after Kurama's arm seizing it in a firm hold forcing the fox to look at him. Kurama snarled.

For a while they stood staring at each other in silence judging, calculating the next step. Until Kuronue slowly released his grip, sighed and shook his head in defeat "You're cruel, white devil."

And Youko Kurama laughed…

THE END

**A/N: **Marlon Brando said _"If you want something from an audience, you give blood to their fantasies__."  
_The Shakespeare quote is from "Macbeth" act three, scene four.  
Review if you liked it!


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